James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper jp-1
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Cedric nodded and smiled, but James didn’t think the ghost believed Rose’s words.
“Will we be seeing you around?” James asked him.
“Sure,” Cedric agreed. “Maybe the whole ‘Specter of Silence’ thing is a bit too much. Next time, I’ll tone it down.”
The three students turned and made their way back along the corridor. As they rounded the corner, James glanced back. There was no sign of Cedric’s ghost, but James had a sense that he was still there anyway. James waved goodbye, then caught up to Ralph and Rose.
As they passed the great open doorway looking out over the courtyard, James stopped. In the blue evening gloom, a small group of students was gathered near the gate. James noticed they were all Slytherins, and Albus was standing in the center of them. With a start, James realized it was Wednesday night, the night Tabitha Corsica had planned to ‘make arrangements’ with Albus.
“Hold up,” James said quietly, stopping Ralph and Rose. As casually as he could, he sauntered over to the door and slipped into the shadows, watching the group of Slytherins.
“What’s going on out there?” Rose asked, joining James. James shushed her.
Tabitha was talking to Albus, smiling prettily, nodding her head. Philia Goyle and Tom Squallus hovered nearby along with a few other Slytherins whom James didn’t know. James couldn’t hear what they were saying. As the crowd shifted, James saw that Tabitha Corsica was holding something tall and thin, wrapped in a black sleeve.
“That’s most of the Slytherin Quidditch team,” Ralph explained in a low voice. “There’s Beetlebrick. He’s the Keeper. Fiera and Havelock are Beaters.”
James narrowed his eyes. “One guess what Corsica has in that black cover.”
The Slytherins suddenly turned and began to walk out of the courtyard. Albus was leading, laughing, and gesturing happily. James slipped through the doorway, following.
“Where are you going?” Ralph asked.
“What’s it look like? I’m going to follow them. Corsica is planning to put Al on that flying curse of hers.”
Ralph grimaced. “What are you planning to do, stop them?”
“I know you can’t help me, Ralph,” James said quickly, “since they’re your housemates and all. But I’m going to go see what they’re planning, at least.”
“It’s not that,” Ralph replied. “I just think it’s Albus’ choice. I sort of think maybe… you shouldn’t get involved.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” James muttered darkly. He jumped out into the quickly darkening courtyard. A moment later, he heard footsteps as someone followed him.
“You don’t have to come, Rose,” James said, stopping at the courtyard gate.
“What kind of a thing is that to say?” she whispered harshly. “I was going to spy on them whether you did or not.”
James smiled at her. Together, they hunkered down and slunk around the edge of the gate, watching for the departing Slytherins. The gloom of the approaching night made it difficult to see. After a moment, Rose pointed. James followed her direction and saw the robed figures cresting a hill a hundred yards away. They were heading for the Quidditch pitch, of course. Keeping as low as they could, Rose and James followed.
As they neared the pitch, James motioned for Rose to follow him. He led her in a curving path around the side of the Gryffindor grandstand. As quietly as they could, they crept up the wooden staircase to the lowest level. There, they crouched before the guardrail and peered down into the dark pitch.
The group of Slytherins stood on the centerline. James could hear their voices indistinctly. Tabitha seemed to be the one speaking. There was some motion as the figures moved about, and James silently cursed himself for leaving his glasses in his bag.
“What’s going on?” he whispered helplessly. “I can barely see who is who.”
“Tabitha just took the cover off of a broom,” Rose whispered back. “She seems to be explaining how it works to Albus. He looks pretty anxious to fly it. He can barely stand still. Looks like he has to go to the loo.”
James could see what happened next. Tabitha held the broom out to Albus. He took it in both hands and looked at it, then looked back up at her. James couldn’t see his face, but he knew Albus was grinning that infectious, reckless grin of his. Finally, the other Slytherins stepped back away from him, leaving him in the center of a rough circle. Albus hefted the broom with one hand, as if testing its weight and balance on his palm. Then, deftly, he tossed it into the air. It came down and bobbed next to him at hip height. James struggled with the urge to shout out, to warn Albus. James had ridden that broom once, and it had been a dreadful disaster. There was something extremely unusual about the magic of it. It had fought James and very nearly killed him. When Tabitha rode it during Quidditch matches, it seemed to exercise a very suspicious influence over the brooms around it, and even, James suspected, the Snitch itself. Rose hooked her hand into James’ collar and pulled him down. James hadn’t realized he’d begun to stand, preparing to call a warning to his brother. He glanced at her, his eyes wide.
“Don’t,” she mouthed, shaking her head.
James looked back down at the pitch. Albus reached out and wrapped his hand around the handle of the floating broom. Quickly, as if purposely not thinking about it, he swung a leg over it, straddled it, and kicked off. The broom shot straight up, spinning slowly and carrying Albus high into the deepening night. It reached the top level of the grandstands and stopped gently. Albus was merely a black shape outlined against the dusky sky. As James watched, he crouched low over the broomstick. It shot forward, perfectly in control. Distantly, Albus ballyhooed happily, his voice echoing over the nearby hills.
Rose leaned toward James. “I had flying lessons with Albus on Tuesday,” she whispered. “He couldn’t fly like that then.”
James pressed his lips into a thin line. He glared down at the assembly of Slytherins on the field but couldn’t make anything out. If any of them were directly influencing Albus’ flight with their wands, he couldn’t tell it.
In the silence of the descending night, James could hear the swish and flap of his brother’s inaugural flight. Albus flickered and swooped over the pitch and the nearby hills, whooping with delight. Finally, after a few minutes of random soaring, he dipped into a long, curving bank over all four of the house grandstands, picking up speed. James and Rose crouched as low as they could as Albus swept in over the Gryffindor gangway. He turned the broomstick easily and pulled it to a hovering stop near the flags that topped the grandstand. James held his breath, hoping that the shadow of the seats was enough to hide him and Rose. Albus took a deep breath, aimed the broom back down toward the pitch, and suddenly stopped. He seemed to be looking directly at James, but in the darkness, it was very hard to tell. He was probably looking past James, down to the Slytherins standing in the center of the pitch below. Finally, Albus leaned forward. The broomstick pitched into a steep dive, sweeping over the rows of seats. James crouched as low as he could, fearing Albus might actually graze him when he passed over the guardrail. As James ducked, a hand reached down and tousled his hair, fleetingly. The wind of Albus’ passing subsided, and James heard his brother laughing as he swooped into the darkness of the pitch.
“That little prat!” James rasped. Rose shushed him.
Albus descended in a tightening circle, finally bringing the broom to a landing as gentle as a dandelion seed. The Slytherins applauded and collapsed around Albus, congratulating him.
“A natural,” Tabitha’s voice rang out on the breeze. “Just like your father.”
“‘Natural’ nothing!” James hissed under his breath. Rose tugged at his robes, pulling him down into the shadows again. Together, they watched the group of Slytherins walk back across the pitch, their voices lost in the rising wind. As James watched, he saw Albus glance up at him and grin.
After a minute, James and Rose climbed down from the grandstand and retraced their steps back to the castle.
Rose answered thoughtfully, “I admit it looked a little suspicious. But you said yourself you could barely control a broom until you got your Thunderstreak. Maybe Albus just needed to get on the right sort of broom to show his stuff.”
James shook his head, exasperated. “You don’t understand. I tried to ride that broom myself, once. It about murdered me!”
“Well, you weren’t supposed to be riding it, then, were you? Some new brooms are smart that way. Even yours has the ‘Extra-Gestural Enhancement’ option, doesn’t it? Once it bonded with you, anybody else who tried to ride it would have serious trouble.”
“Look,” James said, throwing up his hands, “you just have to trust me on this, Rose. That broom’s cursed, somehow. And Tabitha is probably the one that cursed it.”
Rose looked sideways at him. “Why would you say that?”
James shook his head. “It’s a long story. But I’m telling you, there’s something especially wicked about her. You probably wouldn’t believe me even if I told you. Hardly anybody else does.”
“Well,” Rose replied, keeping her voice as even as possible, “maybe there’s a good reason for that.”
“Who’s side are you on anyway?”
“Excuse me,” Rose said, getting angry. “You mean am I on James Potter’s side or Albus Potter’s side? Because I didn’t know I needed to choose.”
James sighed hugely. “Just forget it. Sorry, Rose.”
Rose looked at him for a long moment as they neared the courtyard gate. “Flying runs in the Potter blood, James. You can’t know that Albus isn’t just that good by his nature. The whole reason first-years are allowed to try out for Quidditch is because of how good your dad was his first year. But if there is something strange about that broom, or Tabitha Corsica herself, I’ll be the first one to help you tell Albus about it. All right?”
James smiled wanly. “You promise?”
Rose nodded. Together, they entered the courtyard and climbed into the light of the main hall. Ralph was sitting on the bottom of the main staircase, waiting for them. James smiled.
“He flew it, I’m guessing,” Ralph said, getting up to join them.
“How’d you know?” Rose asked.
“Albus and the rest just passed me on the way in to dinner,” Ralph said. “Albus came over and told me to give you a message when you came in. He said he might just steal your place at the next family Quidditch match.”
James rolled his eyes and glanced at Rose. “Don’t you laugh,” he said, pointing a finger at her.
“I didn’t say anything,” she replied, covering her mouth with her hand. “Come on. Let’s get inside for dinner before they close the doors on us.”
6. THE KING OF THE CATS
Thursday morning, James and Ralph’s first class was Wizard Literature. The classroom was a semicircular gallery attached to the rear of the library. Windows lined the curving wall, filling the room with morning sunlight. The new Wizard Literature teacher, Juliet Revalvier, sat at her desk, leafing through a large book as the students found their seats. Compared to most of the Hogwarts teaching staff, Professor Revalvier was relatively young and petite. Her dark blonde hair was cut shoulder-length, framing an open, friendly face. With her reading glasses on, James thought she looked a bit like a brainy pixie.
“Not you again,” Ralph whispered as Rose slipped into the seat next to him.
“I specifically asked to test into this class if I could,” Rose explained, pulling her Wizlit textbook out of her book bag. “I’ve got all of Revalvier’s books on the classics of magical literature. You know, she even wrote a few novels herself, a couple of decades ago, although they were mostly marketed to Muggles under a made-up name. It was all a bit controversial.”
“Yeah, I know about those,” James said, remembering Cameron Creevey and his mention of the novelizations of the adventures of Harry Potter. “That was her, was it?”
“Well, her and a few other people. It was a test project, spearheaded by one of the big wizard publishing companies. I think the problem was that it was, if anything, rather too much of a success. The Ministry ended up getting involved and there was quite a hoo-ha. Apparently, publishing true accounts of the wizarding world as fiction in the Muggle world is a violation of the Law of Secrecy, although the Wizengamot never convicted her of anything. She was stripped of most of her royalties, which explains why she ended up here, teaching.”
As if on cue, Professor Revalvier closed her book and stood, tucking her reading glasses into her robe. She consulted the clock on the back wall of the room and cleared her throat.
“Behold, what manner of worlds are these,” she said, smiling a little and letting her gaze roam from face to face across the room, “that conjure from the souls of men so readily the primest keystones of the heart? How were wrought these realms that no hand can touch, yet spear to the foundation of all that is most genuine? Dare I declare the pedestal upon which these kingdoms arise and the bricks its walls comprise? Not stone nor wood nor precious jewels can stand the trials of time, further than the realms begotten of words and thoughts and rhyme.”
The professor took a deep breath, then, in a different voice, said, “That was a quote from one of the magical world’s oldest and most revered ballads, The Heraldium. There is no record of the author of that work, nor any reliable date of when it was penned. We know nothing of the time in which it was written: not who was king, not in what city it originated, not even the language that framed it. And yet the ballad itself persists. If there was any proof of the theme of the ballad—that there is no kingdom more beautiful, effective, and everlasting than the kingdom made of words—then that proof is The Heraldium itself, which has long outlasted the civilization that birthed it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Rose scribbling notes feverishly. This, he knew, was just the sort of stuff she lived for. He looked down at his own parchment, which was still blank, and wondered if it was worth the effort to take his own notes, or if there was any hope of Rose letting him crib off of her.
“The magical world is very old, and therefore has a very rich literary history, as evidenced by the library adjacent,” Revalvier went on, gesturing toward the packed bookshelves lining the back of the room. “We have no hope of exploring even a tenth of that history. We will, however, choose major works representative of each age, and by digging into them as deeply as we can, seek to better understand the times from which they come. Many people find literature boring. Those unfortunate people have simply never had the stories opened well for them. I will do my best to open these stories well for you, students. With any luck, we will see these tales come alive. And not just the tales in the special section of the library where the books must be chained to the shelves to keep them from escaping.”
There was a ripple of polite laughter. Revalvier accepted it with a deprecating smile.
“We will begin our exploration of the world of magical literature with a challenge. Rather than a famous classic or a revered ballad, let us begin with something a bit more accessible. Let us have some volunteers. Will someone tell me, please, what was your favorite bedtime story whilst growing up?”
James looked around the room. A Ravenclaw girl named Kendra Corner raised her hand. Revalvier nodded at her encouragingly.
“Like, any story?” Kendra asked. “Even if it’s short?”
Revalvier smiled. “Especially if it is short, Miss Corner.”
“Well,” Kendra said, her cheeks reddening a little, “my favorite story when I was little was The Three Foolish Harridans.”
“Very good, Miss Corner,” Revalvier said. “I imagine many of us have heard that account of the three old women taking their goods to market. A very old story, that, and an excellent example. Anyone else?”
Graham answered next, “The story I remem
ber most is the one about the giant and the beanstalk. Some Muggle kid finds some magic beans, and then climbs the magical beanstalk that grows out of them. A giant lives at the top, and the Muggle kid tries to pinch the giant’s stuff, but the giant catches the kid and smashes him up into bread. The moral was about how careless magic brings trouble for everybody.”
“Another classic example, Mr. Warton,” Revalvier agreed, “although yours illustrates how stories tend to evolve over time, based on shifts in culture.”
Several others described their favorite stories, ending with Rose, whose favorite story, not surprisingly, was one of the tales of Beedle the Bard. “Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump. My mum read it to me from a very old version of the book she got from a former Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore,” she said with some pride.
“Certainly, most of us are very familiar with The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” Professor Revalvier said, leaning comfortably on her desk, “though not all of us were fortunate enough to be read them from such an illustrious source. Indeed, these are all very good examples of classic wizarding literature. They all have some very important things in common. They are all quite old. They are all primarily passed on by word of mouth. And they are all meant to teach important life lessons. Less obviously, these stories tell us subtle things about the times in which they were created. For instance, the days of frail old women pushing cartloads of goods to market are long past, and yet they seem familiar to us because we all grew up with the story of The Three Foolish Harridans. The beauty of great literature, even in the form of children’s stories, is that they teach us things about life, history, the world we live in, and even about ourselves, without us ever knowing it. The point is, the very best lessons in life are the ones we are not aware of learning. These are the lessons literature can teach us.”
“Let us look at another example, one which was not mentioned so far. When I was a little girl, my favorite bedtime story was a tale called The King of the Cats. Do any of you know that story?”